


Duck, Duck, Goose

by Thaddeus_lich



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Hallucinations, I only seem capable of sharing things under the guise of loosely veiled metaphors so here you go, Illnesses, Insomnia, Metaphors, Neglect, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Self-Acceptance, Self-Blame, Self-Doubt, Self-Reflection, So many fucking metaphors, Toxic Households, personal shit, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26314333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thaddeus_lich/pseuds/Thaddeus_lich
Summary: You know when you wake up at 3 am and need to get some words onto a page? This is me collecting those into one easy-to-find place. These will get heavy and are unbeta'd.**NOTE**: Specific content warnings will be in the notes at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. Musings on Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> CW - melancholic tone, emotional distance, recollections of the past, blaming myself, plant metaphors for a relationship by accident.

I have always had a love for lavender. It reminds me of a friend, reminds me of those peaceful nights where I drift off to sleep without issue, reminds me of summers at camp, among other things. My friend knew that lavender was one of my favourites, and before she moved, she got me a small planter box that was supposed to grow a small bush of it. I followed all of the instructions, cared for it, tried desperately to get it to grow, not wanting to fail my best friend by killing the gift that she'd given me.

I watered the seeds for a month, but nothing sprouted. Nothing grew and I was devastated. It is unwise to put a gift like that on such a pedestal, no matter how young you are; unwise to assign it such meaning as the outcome of a relationship, of a friendship. Eventually, I emptied the dirt onto a plate, attempting to find the seeds that had betrayed me so. It quickly became apparent that this box was a dud, there were never any seeds in there, to begin with. There was no way my friend or I could have known this.

This summer, my father bought me a lavender bush, knowing my love of the plant, and the gift that had never grown. We decided to put half of it outside, keeping the other inside with me, sitting by the window in the living room. When my mother tore the plant in two, the roots breaking apart in a painful cry, I knew we'd made a mistake. Some plants aren't meant to be divided so soon, no matter how large they may be. Over the past three days, I have watched my lavender bush resign itself to its new fate; watched as each head drooped down, mourning the loss of its other half, the overcast sky no help to the struggling plant, I'm certain. I love my lavender bush, but I fear that it is once again too late for that to help any.


	2. Musings on Yellow and Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (CW - emotional abuse, pitting siblings against one another, rigid expectations, toxic households, negative self-talk as a result of what has been taught, POV SECOND PERSON)

You’d never think to associate a colour with a sense of freedom or independence, and yet here we stand, mourning the loss of a colour that has only ever been used against you. Pink was the preferred colour for the longest time, was the expectation, was allowed, and yellow was the envied colour of freedom. Yellow meant lower expectations, less rigidity, more love. Yellow was pitted against pink with us being none the wiser. Who knew the colour of sunflowers could be weaponized in such a subtle way, a flower you have always favoured. You can’t wear yellow, it doesn’t suit you. That may be the case, but you’ve never said that any other colour, save perhaps for orange, is off-limits. This isn’t you, of course, you never knew that yellow made you look ill. That was taught. You think that it may be a lie, but you’re too afraid to try, to risk it. You think you’ll purchase that yellow shirt after all. Maybe that’s why we decorate the room with yellow, why we wish so desperately to wear the colour once more. It’s been a while since you’ve worn yellow. You can recall the last time you did too, a hideous yellow, the colour of spoiled mustard, murky and dark. That sweater turned you off the colour, they knew it would. You gave up colour for a while, donning exclusively shades of grey for many years, until you added a dash of blue, of red, of purple. You bought yourself a sewing box with a sunflower print not long ago. Sunflowers have always made you happy, sitting in the garden at your aunt’s house. They grew to reach the second floor; you could see them from your window in the living room. You liked living there, even though it was only for a little while. When you have a place of your own, you think a yellow wallpaper, something light and easy on the eyes, will be in order. You don’t think you’ll have much pink, save for the hat that you bought for yourself. Your pink hat. That bit of pink can stay. 


	3. Musings on Dollhouses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (CW - dysfunctional families, secrets, lying, doll and puppet metaphor, POV is all over the place bc I wrote this at 2 am one time)

We like talking about what goes on behind closed doors, even though we often believe it best to keep such things hidden away from the world. We discuss these things by showing off to the rest of the world, a doll’s house. We like writing about dollhouses, Ibsen did, countless others too whose names escape me at this hour. We like to play pretend within the walls of our houses, masquerading about as though everything and everyone within can be content, as though there are no secrets behind closed doors. We claim to dislike letting the skeletons out of our closets, and yet we air the dirty laundry in the sun outside our plastic windows. We play with dolls as children, not realizing until too late that we’ve written our lives unknowingly, accepting the facades as fact until we can’t see beyond them. And then we do. We see the open wall, the jerky movements of the people around us; I’d call them puppets if it wouldn’t confuse the meaning of the tale. They don’t move like puppets. Puppets are without control, attached to strings their whole lives. They know they are being controlled. I don’t think dolls do. They appear to have free will. But what is free will if you can see the hand moving the others around you? You can see it in the way their skin sags and their dreams are crushed. How the weight of the hand squashes any rebellion. Because we’re a happy family, living in a happy house. We have no secrets here, no dirty linens, no skeletons. We have a pretty plastic house and we move around it following the scripts laid out for us by one another. We keep each other in check. No one wants to break the illusion that we aren’t as happy as we seem. That would be unsightly. We have nothing to say behind closed doors. Which is odd, consider how much time we spend behind them. We try the doors, but they only seem to open so often. Others don’t move at all. I wonder how many others follow these same scripts, stepping on eggshells, sweetly singing like songbirds to get what they want. What they need. A dolls house is hardly a place where needs are met beyond what is visible to the observing eyes beyond the walls. We break down a few plastic doors, leading us down hallways we didn’t know existed until now. Then we are met with new doors, more rigid after years of maintaining illusions of togetherness. The dolls shouldn’t have to force every bit of information they have from the lips of the others. They don’t want to rely on the others, even though the others understand. They don’t want to be a doll anymore. They can’t tell if it would be better to be a puppet or not, so they accept their plastic limbs in lieu of strings to guide their movements. At least they know that skeletons don’t stay hidden for long, and laundry is known to pile up faster than expected, that the words shared behind closed doors are shared nonetheless. The dolls wait for their time, ready to leave the confines of their false houses. They’re ready to stop playing pretend. They hope the others will join them, but they don’t hold out hope. It’s hard to see beyond the plastic windows of a doll’s house. 


	4. Musings on Wine (Unfinished)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (CW - Alcohol)

I don’t like white wine. There’s nothing specific about it, I think it’s just too fruity for my tastes, surprisingly enough. It had no feeling to it, like drinking water with a sickeningly sweet edge. Weak water that pools in the pit of my stomach, clawing its way into my throat.

Red wine is different. It has a deep feeling of substantialness, as though I’m drinking something whole, warm. Red wine feels forceful, sacred.

I don’t like drinking white wine, the way the bubbles fizz against the edges of my glass, clinging to its confinement. Sick water spilling out through the cracks in my skull.


	5. Musings on Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (CW - Disordered Eating, Severe lack of sleep, Hallucinations, Fear of the dark, Illness, Unreality)

I stand in my kitchen living-room split. That’s not true—I sit on the hard wooden stool with my face towards the dark stairwell leading to the lower levels of the house, my back turned to the uncovered window. I want to paint but I am too unwell right now. I need to eat something. When I don’t eat, I lose weight that I can’t afford to lose and I trigger myself again. But as I stand in front of the window above the kitchen sink, I remember that I have no appetite because I’m sick. It’s more effort to eat so I don’t.

I watch the shadows dance across my vision, flickering in the corners, disappearing when I look too closely. They remind me that I need to sleep. I’m sick, I haven’t been sleeping well and I’m sick. I need more sleep when I am sick even though my mind won’t let me. I ignore the hairs standing up on the back of my neck while I turn my back to the uncovered window. 

The shadow that follows me sneaks behind me while I’m not looking—I thought I was looking at the shadows, but I suppose they weren’t the right ones. I see a spooling tendril of darkness rest itself on my left shoulder before I run upstairs. 

I’m watching the dark hallway now, but I know that the shadows will follow me out of the darkness if I don’t sleep again. I’m too hungry to eat, too hungry to sleep. 

You must think me mad, but I promise, It is just the sleep deprivation making itself inarguably known. And so now I must eat and I must sleep and then I will recover and then I will be well again. I’ll be well until I stop sleeping again—When the shadows make themselves known from the darkness again. 

I keep waiting for them to move openly. I worry for when that will happen.


	6. Musings on High-jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW - Disappointment, mistakes

I keep making these same mistakes, keep fucking up the same jump.

I could never jump past a certain height while attempting high-jump in school; I always got caught once it reached my eye level.

That’s awfully fitting, in a cruelly accurate spontaneity of nature.

As soon as I’m met with the truth I stumble, can’t avoid the bar any longer as I come crashing down with it onto the mat, laying face up to meet the uncaring sky as I attempt to memorize how to do better next time.

But I keep missing the jump.


End file.
